Broken Wings
by BulletTimeScully
Summary: "The things we love are always first to go..." Alter Bridge, "Broken Wings"


Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. It is the property of AMC and it's respective cast and creators. I do this for fun.

* * *

_Broken Wings_

By BulletTimeScully

* * *

_On broken wings I'm falling_

_And it won't be long_

_The skin on me is burning_

_By the fires of the sun_

_On skinned knees I'm bleeding_

_And it won't be long_

_I've got to find that meaning_

_I'll search for so long…_

~ "Broken Wings," Alter Bridge

* * *

The trail of blood ran in a thin line down her back, brilliant and harsh against her pale, freckled skin. He huffed as he reached for a clean cloth to wipe it away, stealing a glance as he did, but her head was still bowed, her eyes still closed tightly; she never moved a muscle. As always, she was tougher than she looked… and stubborn as shit on top of it.

Still…

"You okay?" he asked softly, even as his eyes returned to his work.

She smiled, and the muscles of her back moved under his hands as she nodded. "How much longer?" she asked softly.

He paused, his jaw clenching at the near imperceptible tremble in her voice. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell her that she didn't have to keep this up; they could stop and he wouldn't think less of her for it. But he knew it was pointless; she had asked for this, and nothing he said would make any difference.

He sighed softly. "'m almost done."

He felt her nod a second time and then she was still.

Soon enough, his own motions ceased, and she felt the searing sting of disinfectant – as he wiped once, twice, three times across her right shoulder-blade – followed by the quick application of a clean bandage before he stood and moved away.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, looking over to where he stood at the small sink, cleaning his supplies and washing his hands.

"'s good?" she asked expectantly.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder as he placed one of the now clean tattoo needles on a dry cloth and reached for another. "'bout got that side finished," he said, turning back to the sink. "Pretty soon I'll be fillin' it in."

She nodded and smiled softly at his bare back, watching muscle shift beneath scarred skin as he worked.

Both were silent for a moment, the only sounds the gurgling of the faucet and the creaking of the chair as Carol sat up and rolled her shoulders, stiff from sitting for so long. The new section of tattoo stung, but it was a good pain; it let her know that she was alive… that Daryl was alive.

This thought in mind, she stood, pulling his shirt from the back of the chair to cover her bare chest, and walked up behind him, gently wrapping her free arm around his waist. He relaxed into her touch, having come a long way from the man who had flinched so violently away from a chaste kiss on the cheek.

"It's only taken a year to get this far," Carol said quietly, fingers playing absently with the waistband of his jeans as she watched him meticulously clean the homemade needles.

He snorted self-deprecatingly, knowing that she was no longer referring to the half-finished tattoo. "Ain't that long enough?"

She kissed his shoulder, lips lingering against his skin as she whispered, "Not nearly…"

His hands slowly stopped what they were doing, and after a moment he turned to face her. "You mean that?" he asked, blue eyes feral and dark… raw… pleading.

Carol didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let the shirt she was holding drop to the floor and lifted her hands gently to his face. Where he had been completely relaxed moments before, she could now feel the tension coiling just beneath his skin as she gently pressed her lips to his. Even after this long, even after they had been doing much more than kissing for months now, he could still be skittish as a colt. He trusted her – probably more than he had ever trusted anyone in his entire life – but decades' worth of abuse would be hard-fought to leave completely behind, if it was even possible.

Even so, his own hands soon moved to her waist, thumbs digging into the divot of her hipbones as he pulled her closer. As quickly as he had tensed, he started to settle, and they were soon backed up to the small bed in the corner of the room. He didn't protest when she gently pushed him down onto the mattress and moved to straddle him. He rose up to meet her, his body molding to hers in a languid dance of limbs and flesh, their mouths moving gently together, his hands rising to reverently cradle her face.

There's had always been an unspoken relationship, even at the forefront. Things had simply… fallen into place over the long winter months; he taught her how to shoot, how to handle a knife, how to _survive_. She had taught him how to mend his own clothes, how to have patience, and most importantly, how to think before opening his mouth.

They had been drawn to each other from early on, bunking down near one another a month or two in. Sometimes they would talk long into the night, well after the others had gone to sleep… sometimes they would simply lay quietly, watching the stars pass by and enjoying the silence.

When he started to touch her deliberately, that was when she had known things were changing. She had been casually touching _him_ for weeks; nothing intrusive… just a touch on the arm before he was off to hunt, or the brush of a hand against the small of his back as she passed by. He didn't seem to mind, so she continued.

Unlike Carol, however, Daryl wasn't one for casual touch. Everything he did, he did with a purpose, and for the longest time she did her best to pretend that his hand on her arm didn't make her skin burn like wildfire, or that his leg brushing hers as they lay next to the fire didn't cause a long-forgotten heat to pool low in her belly. After several weeks of this slow moving dance, Carol knew without a doubt that something was brewing between them; she also knew that there was no way he would be the one to initiate anything.

The first time she kissed him, she immediately thought she had read him all wrong; he was frozen beneath her, coiled tight as a spring, lips hard and unyielding beneath hers. Yet when she made to pull away, to apologize, to run and hide and hope she hadn't ruined everything, he moved. His hands flew to her face, and he practically devoured her; she could tell he wasn't very experienced, but she wouldn't have traded that moment for the world.

When the initial frenzy had died down, they pulled away from each other, and he had laid his forehead against hers.

"Yeah?" he had rasped, his voice soft and unsure.

Carol's heart had literally melted at the utterly pure, naked vulnerability contained in that one word. It was so unlike him, and she had known what it cost him. She had tried to reassure him as best she could, her hands rhythmically smoothing his hair down the back of his neck as she fought to find the right words. In the end, she had simply answered, "Yeah," in return, her voice thick with unshed tears.

His lips had twitched up in a small smile as he pulled back to look at her.

She tilted her head curiously, wondering what he was thinking.

He had huffed a tiny laugh and shook his head. "Ain't nothin'…"

She could see him chewing his lip, and then he moved to close the distance between them, more confident now, and stopped a hair's breadth from her lips. He smirked. "'Bout time… that's all," he rasped, before closing the gap.

* * *

It was less than two months after that initial kiss when it happened. It was supposed to be a simple hunting trip; Rick had gone with him, which had probably saved his life. The two men had been set upon by several stray walkers, and in an attempt to lead them away from the camp, Daryl misjudged his footing and ended up at the bottom of a ravine, and arrow through his side and knocked out cold to boot. Somehow, Rick had managed to dispatch the straggling walkers and then drag Daryl from the ravine and back to the abandoned house where they were camped.

It was a miracle that the man had survived the fall, let alone the arrow that had barely missed his liver and right kidney. He had once said, about his older brother, that no one could kill Merle but Merle; Carol had started to think that the same was equally true about the younger Dixon.

Normally, the group would have moved on within a few days, but there was no way they were leaving Daryl behind, and moving him had been too risky. So they stayed, gathering what they could from the area and generally tightening things down until it was safe to move on.

During Daryl's convalescence, there was no longer any doubt among the group that Carol cared for the man more than anyone could have ever guessed. She never moved from his side; she left the room only to take care of her most basic needs, but otherwise she was there with him. She tended his wounds; she crushed up antibiotic tablets and mixed them with water in a syringe, painstakingly squirting them down his throat a little at a time so that he didn't choke; she bathed him; she kept the fire in the fireplace going and his blankets piled high so he would stay warm; and for the first time since she had lost Sophia, she prayed. She prayed to a God that she was no longer sure existed… she prayed for him to come back to her.

Someone must have heard her plea – or maybe it was just sheer force of will and stubbornness on Daryl's part – because after nearly a week, he finally opened his eyes.

He didn't say anything when he saw her sitting there, red-eyed, face drawn with exhaustion and fear. He simply held his hand out, and watched while she threaded her fingers through his. Something passed between them then, unspoken as always, yet clear as the most flawless diamond… and just as unbreakable.

Carol had decided then that wanted something to remember him by; something that would always be with her should the worst happen. Photos were no longer an option, and Daryl wasn't really a giver of trinkets, the present world and the lack thereof notwithstanding. Still, there had to be something…

"You're shittin' me, right?"

Carol crossed her arms over her chest and gave Daryl a look that said otherwise.

He huffed, unable to believe the level of stubbornness he was dealing with. "What of?" he growled, though there was no true malice behind it.

Her eyes had flicked off to the side, to where his vest lay across the bed they now shared. They lingered there for a long moment before she looked back to him expectantly, daring him to say anything.

His gaze moved to where hers had been, eyes narrowing before moving back to her.

He huffed and walked off, pacing the length of the room and running a hand through his hair.

She let him pace, knowing this was his way of working things out.

"You realize that ain't something that can be done in one sittin'?" he said finally, tilting his chin towards the angel wings sewn into the leather. "It'll take weeks_… months_… maybe longer. And that's providin' I can even find the stuff to make tools with."

"I know," she said calmly.

He ran a hand over his mouth, still not believing what she was asking him to do. He tried another tactic. "It'll hurt… and you won't even be able to see it. It could get infected…"

"I know that too." She moved towards him, laying a hand against his heart. "But I'll know it's there… always… like you."

He frowned at her and shifted his gaze to the floor.

She ducked her head so she could look him in the eye. "Like you, Daryl… always there, always watching over me… over all of us… even if I can't see you… a guardian angel."

He huffed, scratching the back of his neck. "Ain't no angel," he said, shaking his head.

She simply smiled and leaned in to kiss him, and suddenly, all his worries faded to the wayside, and the idea of tattooing the angel wings on her back didn't seem so bad.

Later, as the months progressed, and the tattoo progressed into something tangible and real, just like the bond they shared, Daryl realized that Carol _had_ been wrong.

She had told him that he was _her_ guardian angel, _her_ savior, _her_ protector, but he wasn't.

No.

She was _his_.

~FIN


End file.
